


Leather. Pants.

by constructedmadness (dragonsquill)



Series: A Series of Missions, McKirk Style [2]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Costumes, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 06:18:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/pseuds/constructedmadness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim has a not-so-secret love for missions that require the services of the ship's costume requisitions department.  However, when he puts together a team to beam down to a planet with Old West parallels, his poor libido gets more than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leather. Pants.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is completely inspired by how Karl Urban looked playing Woodrow F. Call in _Comanche Moon_. Google it. It will make you have good dreams. Watch it. It will . . . put you to sleep so the dreams may begin sooner.
> 
> This story exists in the same headcanon as my previous stories. I really need to come up with a name for the series so I can tag them as such. It is a major re-write of a 2010 comment-fic on the jim_and_bones LJ.

Mercurius IV (local name: _Onatah_ ) was an unassuming little class M planet bordering the usual sort of unassuming yellow sun. At least, that was Jim’s take on it; while he understood the basics of planetary studies, he didn’t approach it with the sort of bated-breath enthusiasm his science departments did. The planet’s inhabitants were nowhere close to warp power; in fact, Uhura found no indications of anything as simple as basic satellite communication. As a result, Sulu brought the _Enterprise_ into a moderate orbit and Jim let his science teams go to town, scanning up a storm for three days of complete scientific glee (except for Spock, who approached the mission with a raised eyebrow of mild interest, but the other blueshirts aboard were used to this and no longer allowed him to rain on their parades). 

As captain, Jim enjoyed watching his collection of gifted officers enjoying themselves. He toured the labs and asked about scans, then stayed to listen to drawn-out and enthusiastic reports on everything from mineral deposits (pretty darn boring if you weren’t in geology, but they were just so happy about it that Jim couldn’t help but pick up some of their enthusiasm) to developing industrial structures (which could have been boring if Jim wasn’t a closet history nerd; the sociology department liked his visits) to rudimentary medical procedures (this involved a lot of cursing and hand waving as the good doctor ranted vociferously about the lack of basic hand-washing in surgical procedures; after the necessary reminder that Bones couldn’t just pop down to every planet they visited and instruct the doctors on medical basics, the captain proceeded to molest his husband right there in the CMO’s office. This made him late to meet with the botanists, but they were so busy arguing over the ecological role of a certain form of fungus that they didn’t even notice).

However, it was when the images started coming in from the surface scans that Jim _really_ jumped on board the “this is awesome!” express. Because this is when he, and the rest of the crew, learned that they had once again found a world with Old Earth parallels (sociology would really be rocking out now), this time in a large region that was developing farming and ranching in ways similar to the American Old West. They were being much more peaceful about it; the planet’s denizens had apparently worked through the fact that they didn’t all look exactly alike and were completely okay with that. The society was strongly male-dominated, but the young country was made up of humanoids with a variety of skin colors living in relative harmony. 

Uhura passed the images on to Sulu as they came up, and Sulu put them up on the Bridge screen for shared perusal. The majority of citizens looked roughly like Native Americans on Earth (though Kirk thought speculatively that Sulu had enough of their look to pass, and made a mental note), but a selection of other ethnic groups had been migrating in. They were an agricultural society, though industry was developing along the coasts. However, it was the ranching center of the continent that interested Jim. There were leather coats and boots and cowboy hats, dusty saloons with brothels perched above them, clapboard houses and adobe huts, native animals being led to and fro from the backs of something that looked nothing like a horse but served a similar purpose. Jim fell a little in love with the place at first sight.

They were about five minutes into the rotating stills when the door to the turbolift opened and Bones (who claimed that _unlike some Starfleet captains_ , he was busy 24/7 and yet here he was in the middle of his shift. Again.), ambled onto the Bridge. He took his usual spot just behind Jim’s left shoulder, crossed his arms, and frowned thoughtfully at the screen. It took only three shots for him to realize that with a minimum of cosmetic adjustment, almost any member of the _Enterprise_ ’s crew could pop down and pass themselves off as Onatah. He heaved a sigh that spoke of weary resignation. “We’re going down there, aren’t we?”

The captain’s mischievous grin required no additional verbal reply.

~~~~~~~~~~

When Starfleet sent out its first exploration vessels, no one had thought that a dedicated _costume requisitions_ department would be needed. It had been assumed that the physical similarities between Vulcans and Terrans were a bit of a fluke, and if they wanted to avoid screwing up the development of other worlds, they would need to do most of their work from ships. The Vulcans, who had been wandering the quadrant far longer, knew better, but they didn’t have an interest in skulking around other civilizations in disguise. They soon learned that humans absolutely did. Therefore, by the time the _Enterprise_ headed out on her five-year mission, she was stocked with a group of scientists from various departments who doubled as ship-wide wardrobe specialists for away missions. 

Some captains didn’t think very often of their costuming department. Captain Kirk was not one of them. Some secret little part of Jim Kirk’s brain, carefully hidden from everyone (which meant, of course, that practically everyone on board was now fully aware of it), loved costume missions. It felt wonderful to get out of uniform, stretch the legs so to speak. He was out of his seat and heading for the lift before Bones could finish his melodramatic eye-roll.

Getting to order historical costuming for other members of their crew was just a truly magnificent dose of gravy. He especially enjoyed taking along Sulu, Chekov, or both, as they always acted even more doe-eyed than usual when seeing each other out of uniform. He admitted quite freely in his personal _personal_ log (the one on paper, and not in any computer for future cadets to poke through during leadership psychology courses) that he loved teasing those two, who were so career-oriented that they appeared completely unaware of the way they looked at each other. He assigned Chekov to the mission the minute it was approved, though he knew Command might ask why he needed his best navigator planet-side. Chekov needed some experience and his baby face (hiding both intense intelligence and innate stubbornness) had proven useful in the past. He added Sulu because he knew a thing or two about classic firearms and Command wanted some plant samples. Like most of the overachievers aboard the _Enterprise,_ Sulu could fill more than one role; in this case, he was both a pilot and a botanist.

Oh yes. Jim had the leather chaps on order before the word “go,” and immediately ordered up outfits for Chekov, Sulu, Spock (at least they could hide his ears under a proper hat and avoid the “he caught his ears in a rice picker” excuse this time around), Uhura, doubling as communications and sociology (there’d been a long discussion with Lt. Holloway, a xenoanthropologist and unofficial head of the costume team, about whether to put her in a high-class dress, a standard calico, or try to pass her off as a rebel in pants; they decided on the calico, with pants that were just this side of leggings underneath) Ensign Wayha from security, and, of course, Bones. There was no way Jim Kirk would wear a pair of pants that made his ass look _that damn fine_ without dragging his CMO along. Besides, every normal, safe mission went invariably hinky for the _Enterprise’s_ valiant crew, so it always felt wise to bring along a medical genius. 

_(Victory sex was also much easier to manage with Bones conveniently nearby.)_

Two days after receiving the go-ahead for a small away team, Jim stood in the transporter room, flanked by the members of said team who felt punctuality was a positive trait. That is to say, everyone except Bones. Spock looked long and sleek in grays and blacks, his ears neatly tucked under his black hat – Bones, with his secret love of all things spaghetti western, would love that touch. Chekov’s intense look of concentration only made the curls peeking under the brim of his hat look more adorably un-cowboyish as Sulu lectured him on the old-style firearm and tried not to stare. He seemed less distracted by Sulu’s largely bare chest than Sulu was by his (falsely) worn-in plaid shirt. The security officer looked nervous and a bit uptight, as per usual, even in her long leather dress and colorfully braided hair. Uhura was elegant and poised as always in deep blue calico, her hair curled into a lovely twist, native stones twinkling at the base of her throat. Scotty looked thrilled to be staying with his lassie instead of going on any pointless away missions, and everyone was waiting for Bones.

Who strode in approximately five seconds before Spock started quoting regulations concerning reporting tardy crewmembers to his captain. 

Jim’s mouth went dry.

His hands gripped his trousers in an attempt to keep from covering Chekov – and possibly Sulu’s – eyes. No, _definitely_ Sulu’s.

Trousers which were feeling a bit on the tight side, suddenly. He’d thought Holloway was on his side, but she clearly had no respect for men seeing their CMOs in leather.

_Leather. Pants._

Jim had _not_ ordered leather pants for Bones. He’d ordered sensible black slacks in the same canvas material he was wearing.

And a beard. A scruffy, sexy, delicious, how the _hell_ do you grow a beard in two hours sort of beard. Damn Sickbay and their strange concoctions! 

And good lord above, the _gun_ , tucked all nonchalantly against his left hip.

_(While we're talking, Lord, please don't let him actually use the gun. I saw him in class, and frankly, I don't think he'd do any major damage to a barn, especially if that barn was shaped like a person. I should probably take the bullets out right now and replace them with hyposprays. He does plenty of damage with those.)_

Jim wasn't going to accomplish anything this mission. He knew it. Not until he removed the offending bits of costuming. Because Bones naked was damn sexy, but Bones in leather was more than any man could be expected to take.

The asshole smirked at him and stepped up on the pad. 

“You are late, Doctor,” Spock intoned, clearly showing off his innate lack of human needs by being utterly unmoved by Bones’s ass shifting beneath the tight brown slacks. 

“Had a patient,” Bones replied, right eyebrow doing a little dance of amused irritation. He adjusted the strap of the leather bag holding his medical supplies over his shoulder, moving it so it covered the bit that was distracting Jim so completely. On their first such mission, Spock had calmly explained that Bones couldn’t take down futuristic medical technology to pre-warp planets. He had outlined scenarios in which the items might end up in native hands and have a deleterious effect on the planet’s growth. Bones had responded with a snarl that made even the Vulcan back down, and they hadn’t had that particular discussion again. “Doctor’s discretion.”

“I see.” Spock sounded stiff now. He hated losing the chance to quote nitpicky regulations to the doctor. “You might consider sending a message.”

“Sure,” Bones drawled, all Southern politeness and _dammit_ he was doing that _on purpose_. “I’ll just keep that in mind next time someone is vomiting all over my shoes, Commander.”

“I hope you engaged in a sonic deconta-”

“No, Spock, I absolutely did _not_ follow my own damn regulations! I just tossed the boots out an airlock and headed down here!” Bones snorted. “Of _course_ I took a decon. It may look like 1857 down there-”

Jim tuned them out and straightened his shoulders. He was a genius, a captain, a damn good captain who had faced down Romulans and Klingons without breaking a sweat. He could stand up to Bones’ personal fashion choices. “Ready for beam down, Scotty,” he ordered.

“Aye, sir!” 

Scotty was always so cheerful sending other people down to their doom.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jim lasted three hours.

And he was proud of that fact.

He’d have made it longer, but then Bones pulled out the gloves. Black leather, sleek but rugged, and molded perfectly to those hands that Jim knew for a fact had hidden talents that could wipe out basic speech. Supposedly, he put them on to pick through some local detritus with Spock that they’d taken a shine to. Both men had claimed that plasti-rubber surgical gloves would be too obviously foreign on a planet lost in the 1800s, but Jim never put it past Bones to screw around with his brain. Frankly, Jim was impressed by the natives' ability not to jump the man and rip his clothes off the moment the things came out of his pocket, much less after he pulled them on and started making little interested noises back and forth with Spock. _The_ n, because that apparently wasn’t enough for Leonard “Pushes Every Damn Button” McCoy, the man _pushed off his hat_ , and his hair, usually beaten into submission by gel until it looked like he had stolen it off the head of a 60-year-old used car salesman, was a rumpled mess from the combination of rushed decon shower and dusty leather hat.

Which is how Captain James Kirk, hero of the Federation, found himself shoving replicated local currency into the hands of the woman in charge of the local whorehouse, grabbing his CMO's dusty vest in his hand and dragging him upstairs.

Clearly, this would be left out of the official report.

"What the _hell,_ Jim?! If this is some twisted threesome fantasy of yours, you can damn well forget it! I don't care if they ARE screened, I'm not picking up any alien STDs!"

Bones was complaining. Really, this should have been a turn-off. It wasn't. Jim was beginning to worry about himself, just a bit. "Just...shut up and get in the room, Bones!" 

Bones huffed as Jim shoved him into the tiny, thankfully unoccupied bedroom, slamming the door behind them. The doctor eyed the bed that took up most of the space with an expression of slight panic. Jim could practically hear his internal calculations on the likelihood of alien bedbugs. "You didn't drink any of that swill in the saloon did you? You know the hobgoblin wouldn’t let me scan it-"

Further complaints were neatly cut off by Jim's tongue, generally the only thing capable of stopping Leonard McCoy before he really got going. The doctor's lips parted reflexively as Jim's fingers worked feverishly on the buttons of the rough cloth vest. 

_(He hadn’t ordered that vest either, just the cotton shirt, but Holloway was a sadist because the vest emphasized those wide shoulders and trim waist in ways Jim hadn’t ever contemplated.)_

"You," Jim bit against his mouth, "are never going out in public dressed like this ever again."

Bones's eyebrow, ever one for commentary, arched questioningly. "What?" 

Jim shoved the vest off and started on the shirt, snarling at yet another row of buttons. Layers! Too many layers, and no one should be this delicious covered in replicated cow! The captain skipped commentary in favor of rubbing his cock - half hard for the last two hours and thickening by the second - against one leather-clad thigh. "Stop asking questions and get naked or I'm not going to be responsible for the consequences!"

Bones huffed out a rare chuckle and lowered his arms, letting Jim push the shirt off, watching as the captain fell to his knees and pushed the pants out of the way with single-minded intent. "Jim-"

Whatever he'd meant to say disappeared into a groan as Jim swallowed him down. 

Bones’ head thumped against the clapboard wall as leather-clad fingers buried in Jim's hair. "Hell," he grit out between clenched teeth. Jim's tongue flickered, his jaw working. In some part of his mind, Jim knew Bones _should_ look ridiculous - hat askew, hair a mess, leather pants bunched under his ass - but most of his mind was completely focused on the low gravel in the man’s voice, and the hot length heavy against his tongue.

Bones didn't last long. It never did, when Jim was like this. They'd had their share of nights spent in long, drawn-out foreplay – Bones could go for _hours_ \- but better men than Leonard McCoy wouldn't have lasted seconds with Jim Kirk sucking their cocks like nothing else in the world mattered.

Besides which, Bones was a total _whore_ for blowjobs.

Jim swallowed quickly. He didn’t want to mess up those pants, oh no. _Costume req will never see these clothes again,_ he swore to himself as Bones softened against his lips.

"Damn, kid," Bones panted when Jim rocked back on his heels, his blue eyes dark, lips swollen. He grabbed his captain's shoulder and hauled him up. Jim rose obediently, grunting as his cock pressed hard against Bones’ thigh. "Don't know what's gotten into you, but you'd best let me help with that." He moved to take the sleek black gloves off.

Jim's hand shot out and caught his wrist. "Leave 'em on."

Bones inspired kinks Jim never suspected he had.

Bones’ full lips curled into a smirk as a few definite clues fell into place. "Whatever you want, Jim," he purred, laying on the accent. Jim practically melted against him, biting hard at his neck as the doctor made short work of the buttons at his fly and slipped his hand inside, wrapping his fingers around the welcome he found there.

Jim shuddered and held on to Bone's arms as the older man's hand started moving. _Finally!_ Jim loved his job, but there were moments (hours, in the case of this damn mission) when the exclusive role of “CMO’s Sex Toy” held a definite appeal.

The glove wasn’t terribly soft, more thick and rough, and indescribably hot as it barely caught on the sensitive skin of his erection. Bones smelled like leather, his skin musky with it, and his beard brushed Jim's temple as the captain bit and licked at warm, delicious skin. He came harder than anyone had a right to from a hand job, rutting into Bones' grip with desperation born of watching his lover strolling around in leather that clung to his truly spectacular ass.

"All right there, darlin'?"

Jim shivered. He was never going to admit, ever, that a pet name made him hot. No. Not suitable to his image at all. "Am now, you hot bastard."

"We aim to please, Captain." Bones quickly tucked Jim back into his clothes, making a face at the glove on his right hand as he did so. "I think this might have to go."

Jim practically purred, catching the wrist and biting hard at one leather clad fingertip. "I'll get you another one," he promised.

Bones smirked, his eyes heavy and dark. "Oh, I know you will."

This could very well be the longest mission in history.

_I wonder if they let out rooms by the day in this place?_

**Author's Note:**

> [Blanket Permission Statement](http://dragonsquill.tumblr.com/permission)


End file.
